


No Other Above You

by vicewithavice



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Fluff without Plot, M/M, bitty seamlessly integrating into the zimmermann family is my kink, gratuitous inclusion of maple syrup, gratuitous use of joual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:44:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6640057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vicewithavice/pseuds/vicewithavice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bittle spends a day with the Zimmermann's in Montreal. Jack realizes he's tired of hiding his domestic bliss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Other Above You

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this long before I even officially joined the CP fandom and figured I should finally do something with it. Title from Beyonce's Hold Up. French translations will go in the end notes (I'm FSL, hope it's not too bad)

They can see the snowstorm coming in from the plane, a grey cloud that smudges out everything underneath it, snuffing out the twinkling lights of Montreal. Bittle cranes his neck to see out the window, forehead pushed up against the glass, but before long the plane is engulfed, and even the wings are lost in the thick haze. His hand clutches the armrest between them, knuckles going white, and Jack knows that Bittle doesn't like flying at the best of times, so he squeezes Bittle’s hand gently, reassuring him, but pulls away before too long. He offers a guilty smile. When they get to his parents’, he’ll hold Bittle all night.

“I don't think my jacket is warm enough for this.”

They land gently enough, and Jack pulls on his sweater, offers Bittle his parka. Even as they walk through the Jetway, the cold air slides in through the cracks, blowing snowflakes down Jack’s neck. He misses home a lot, but he doesn't particularly miss this. 

His father is waiting for them at arrivals, greets them both with big hugs. They planned to arrive early, it’s just past five, thinking the airport would be quiet with American Thanksgiving only a day away, but there’s still a decent crowd at arrivals. Jack ignores the flashes from cell phone cameras and the curious looks as they wait for their luggage. 

“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bittle says, trying but not quite succeeding to ignore the crowd as well. There's red on the back of his neck and tips of his ears, and his eyes dart back and forth. It's so hard not to put a hand on his shoulder and pull him in close, hates that he can't protect him from their stares. 

“No need to be so formal. Please, call me Mr. Jack's Dad.”

Jack laughs and Bittle gapes for a second. “I thought y’all were supposed to be polite!”

It's easy between the three of them, and when the bags land on the carousel Jack shoulders Bitty’s duffel and rolls his own suitcase. They get hit with a blast of cold air outside, the wind reddening their cheeks almost instantly. Bittle looks miserable, ducking his head into the neck of Jack’s parka so only his eyes are visible, his hands drawn up deep into the too-long sleeves. 

“Goodness!” He says when they make it to the safety of Bob’s SUV. Snow falls to the floor as he shakes out his hair, and he breathes hot air onto his red fingers to warm them up. In the safety behind closed doors and tinted windows, Jack reaches over from the front seat and cups them between his large hands. 

“It’s not always like this,” he promises. 

“I wasn't exactly expecting a tropical vacation, but how do y’all live like this? I'm startin’ to think there might actually be some igloos ‘round here.”

“No igloos, but there is a hotel made completely of ice.” Bob says, and Jack watches as Bittle decides whether or not to believe him. 

“Y croit que tu niaises.” Jack tells his father with a laugh. 

“What did you say?” Bittle demands. Jack just shakes his head and faces the front, one arm still stretched behind the seat to keep Bittle's hand in his.

The drive isn't much better than the flight, with the snow whiting out most of the road and the wind shaking the vehicle at every stop. Jack knows the stretch between the airport and home like the back of his hand, his father does even better, but he wishes Bittle could see the city as they drove. All he’s seen of Montreal so far is the inside of the airport and the haze of city lights through the snow.

At Bittle's insistence they grab a coffee from Tim Hortons, the drive through lined up even in this weather, even this early, and snaps a photo for Ransom. He tries a bite of the donut and frowns, clearly unsatisfied, sticking it back in the bag. Jack can tell how much he wants to film some of this for his vlog. 

Bob asks Bittle questions about school and hockey, they talk a bit about football, too, and Jack looks out the window at nothing fondly, sipping on his coffee and thinking back to a time when he’d never imagined his father would be okay with his son bringing home a boyfriend for Thanksgiving. It took him a long time to realize that he’d bought into the Bad Bob image as much as anyone else, never quite saw past the legend of hockey fights and trash talking until he woke up in the hospital with Bob next to him, crying earnestly. 

He envisioned his life as a triangle, each point with a label: NHL Career, Love Life, Relationship with Parents. Pick two. It never dawned on him it didn't have to be that way until much later. It's not perfect, won't be as long as he has to keep distance between himself and Bittle in public, but it's a start. 

They pull up to the condo downtown, his parents sold their home when Jack left for college, he's glad for it, and leave the car and bags with a valet and take the elevators to the top suite. It’s a substantial downgrade from their old place, at least in size, but Bittle still gasps when they walk in, eyes widening at the open concept floor plan, the wall of windows…

“The kitchen!” He all but runs over to the marble countertops, the double oven. “My word.” Jack can see him vibrating with excitement, the gears in his head turning as he imagines his next creation. 

“Mes gars!” Alicia walks in from the bedroom, all smiles, and pulls Jack into a frighteningly tight hug. “I missed you, baby.” Jack leans into the embrace, feeling more comforted than he has in a long time. Despite the fact that he’s more than a head taller than her, and almost twenty-six, he gets the impression she still sees him as a waddling three year old. 

“And Eric.” She holds out her arms and gives Bittle a hug as well. “Welcome to Montreal. Was the flight in alright?” She fusses after him immediately, making sure he packed warm enough clothes and forcing toques and scarves into his hands. When the bags come up, Jack takes them into their room, catching snippets of Bittle’s conversation with Alicia. They talk baking, and although his mom would never say it, he can hear how she's enjoying talking about something other than hockey. 

Jack joins his father at the dinner table, where Bob has his newspaper spread out in front of him, open to the sports section. There’s a photo of himself in the centre of the page, taken at one of his games, though he isn’t sure which, and the headline praises his record as the highest-scoring rookie so far this season. He knows he’s a handful of goals under Kent’s record, knows his father is aware of this as well. He steels himself for the comparison, the judgement disguised as concern, clutches the seat of his chair. 

“Je suis fièr de toi.” 

He doesn’t relax tangibly, but he could slump under his father’s praise. It’s everything he told himself he doesn’t need, made sure he played every game for the love of his sport and not his father’s reassurance. It’s not the first time Bob’s said it, but this time, Jack believes it.

“Merci, papa.”

It’s getting too late for a nap, he’s never really liked taking them much anyway, and the coffee is thrumming through him, his legs aching from sitting so long, so he changes into his workout clothes and, after some nagging, he and Bittle go down to the condo’s gym. There’s no one else there, the equipment looks new, untouched, much better than his gym back in Providence. The room fills up with the tinny music from Bittle’s speakers, upbeat pop music that Jack reluctantly admits is a good motivator. They start on the treadmills, side by side, facing the windows, looking out over the frozen river, snowflakes hitting the glass with enough force to make little wet sounds. 

They work comfortably next to each other, the sound of steady footfalls and heavier breathing all that passes between them. Jack watches Bittle run, face red with exertion but his chest rising and falling in counted breaths, lips moving minutely to the lyrics of the song playing. He often forgets that to Bittle, hockey is something he does for fun, that he puts all this work into it knowing that he won’t keep playing after graduation. Shitty was the same, skating without expectation, no pressure to impress the scouts and make it into the draft. He wishes he could feel that lightness, sometimes.

Bittle turns his head, catches Jack looking at him, smiles. A blonde curl is plastered onto his forehead, slick with sweat, and Jack reaches out, tenderly swipes it away, swears Bittle flushes to an even deeper shade of red. One day, he’ll be able to do this in public, just casually lean over and touch his boyfriend. Not yet, he has to prove himself, establish a foothold in the NHL, his talent had to speak louder than the critics. He’s told his agent, and Georgia, who told the PR team with his permission, and some of his teammates, making his way step by step out of the public closet. He’ll do it whether or not he’s still with Bittle in a few years, this is something he has to do for himself, but he can’t pretend he doesn’t think about how it will affect him, too, for better or worse. 

“Maybe if tomorrow is nicer, we can run along the river.” He says, mostly to distract himself from thoughts of the overwhelming future. With the push of a few buttons, he slows down to an easy stroll, already eyeing up the free weights. “If the path isn’t snowed over.”

“Won’t it be too cold?” Bittle asks, practically shivering just thinking of it. 

“It’s not any worse than running in Georgia in the middle of summer.” Jack replies, remembering the humidity, even in the early morning, the way the air seemed to cling to him, each breath sticking in his throat. 

“Says you.”

Jack sets up the weights for Bittle at the bench press, spots him as he does a few reps of presses, focusing more on the way his muscles shift and flex in his arms and chest than he should, but he’s just noticed how big Bittle’s shoulders have become since they saw each other last, and Jack’s always liked how tiny Bittle is, comparatively, but he also likes this. A lot. He touches because he can, because he only has his boyfriend here for three days, and they have months of catching up to do. It’s almost clinical, to start with, running his hands over the developed muscles, just feeling them, trying not to get carried away but failing miserably, and it’s not long before he has Bittle’s shirt hiked up and his fingers splayed on his chest, feeling him vibrate with the effort of keeping the bar from dropping, and from something else. 

“Jack…” Bitty places the bar on the stand, closes his eyes.

He’s setting them both up for a let down by winding them tight with no way to release. Bittle is arching into his touch, workout forgotten, hands over his head to grab Jack’s knees, and it would be so easy to reach into Bittle’s shorts, he’s already hard and Jack’s halfway there, and the longer he waits the more effort it takes to tell himself that he needs to stop, they’re in a room made of windows in his parent’s condo, anyone could walk by and see them. When he lifts his hand off Bittle’s skin, Bittle understands, sits up on the edge of the bench, pulls his shirt back down. 

“I’m...uh.... Just gonna…” He points vaguely at the pull-down machine, wonders over a bit dazed, probably unaware that he’s grinning. The air is electric, Jack’s heart is pounding still and it’s not because of the workout. He can count on one hand how many times they’ve been together, and that’s counting those few times on Skype when Bittle’s skin glowed blue from the light of his computer screen and his teeth bit into his knuckles. 

“Concentrer.” He chastises himself under his breath, loads the bar with more weights, doesn’t notice the way Bittle’s shoulders look as he lays down on the bench and grips the bar. 

It’s definitely not his best workout, but at least he can say he did it. The two of them walk out sweaty, breathing heavy, and Jack tries to ignore how every brush of their arms shoots a spark. Bittle is still blushing, but scowling a little, like he’s trying not to, and somehow Jack restrains himself during the whole elevator ride back up to his parents’ suite. 

He showers quickly, rinsing off the sweat and the stale airplane air, feeling more awake when he steps out. He throws on some fresh clothes and hears Bittle start the water. 

His parents are in the kitchen, dad at the coffee machine and mom at the frying pan, chatting idly about the charity gala they have tonight, and Jack slides onto a bar stool at the island and imagines his life in thirty-five years. He knows they haven't always had the perfect marriage, remembers arguments about work and responsibilities, trust issues, and for a while Jack thought they were done, but they committed themselves to making it last, and when Jack was in therapy they went to counseling, too. It's a long way off, but when Jack does decide to start a family, he’ll look to his parents as role models. 

Bittle walks into the kitchen in sweats and Jack’s old Samwell tee, graciously accepting a mug of coffee from Bob before tucking himself into Jack’s side, elbows on the countertop and steam rising over his face. He offers to help but Alicia refuses, making a threatening motion with the wooden spoon, and if his parents ever wanted something different for Jack, if they’d ever felt disappointed that their son wasn't going to bring a girl home, they’ve never shown it. He knows how lucky he is, remembers how he kept his hands in his pockets in Madison to stop himself from touching Bittle in front of Suzanne. 

Breakfast is comfortable. Jack talks about the Falconers, life on the road, the time their bus broke down. Bob listens fondly, smiling and nodding along, no doubt thinking back to his NHL career. Bittle’s heard all these stories before but he pays attention to every word, and supplements any details Jack left out. The four of them sit at the table for a long time, just talking, their plates scraped clean and their mugs empty. He rests his hand on Bittle’s knee like it’s the most natural thing in the world, leaning back to listen to his father and Bittle talk about football. Alicia asks about Bittle’s vlogs, and Bittle admits he’d like to film something in such a beautiful kitchen, though he’s worried he might somehow reveal where he is, who he’s with. There are family photos and portraits all over the walls, interspaced with Habs and Pens memorabilia, all with Bob’s number. 

“Don't you worry about that, dear.” Alicia insists. “Move whatever you need to. l’ve got some traditional Canadian dessert recipes from Jack’s mamé around somewhere, wouldn't that be fun?”

“Maman, ché pas si Bittle-”

“That sounds lovely, Mrs. Zimmermann, thank you.” 

Which is how Jack ends up lingering outside the kitchen, house smelling of apple and cinnamon and maple before 10 am. Bittle has his phone set up on a makeshift tripod, and at first he looks a bit stiff, aware that Jack is watching him, that Jack’s parents are in the other room, but he warms up soon enough, speaking to the camera as natural as another person, something Jack’s always struggled with. Occasionally, Bittle looks over to Jack, who shoots him a reassuring smile. Bittle stumbles over his words and has to pause to chastise Jack for being too gosh-darned cute. 

“Just cute?” He teases, which makes Bittle stutter even more.

“Hush, I’m filming.” He says eventually, reaching over to slap Jack’s arm. 

Jack has seen a few of Bittle’s vlogs, just the one’s he's put up since they started dating. It feels like prying to dig deeper back, he knows Bittle talks about his personal life, he won't do it until he’s told it’s okay, but he hopes he will: he finds comfort in listening to Bittle talk, even if it’s not to him directly, even if it’s about the history of lattice-crust pies, it helps him feel closer to home while he’s on the road. 

Hopefully, Bittle will be making videos more often, he’s gained a wider audience since being featured on a popular blog. That night, Bittle had called him, voice high and speaking so fast Jack couldn't make out what he was saying at first. He remembers that night, how excited Bittle was, so much so that the squeak of mattress springs punctuated every word as he jumped up and down on his bed. 

Jack doesn't remember a time when hockey wasn't everything he wanted, every thought in his head. It's hard to believe that for Bittle, hockey will end after college, that his life hasn't lead up to the rink and every time he laces up his skates he doesn't feel the vacuum-like pressure that removes every thought but the puck. Watching Bittle in the kitchen, he gets a sense of that. He hasn't decided what he’s going to do after school, but Jack can see how happy he is with flour in his hair and dough sticking to his fingers, even though Bittle dismisses it as just a hobby. He knows he doesn't get a say, hell, they've only been dating six months, but Jack hopes Bitty will choose what makes him happiest. 

Bittle slides his hands into Alicia’s oven mitts and pulls out Jack's apple and maple pie. It’s not for the video, he’s made a vlog about that one before, but he couldn't resist making something special for the holidays. He adjusts the camera for the perfect shot and takes out the butter tarts, perfectly browned and gooey. While they cool, he runs to the balcony, grabs the dish of nanaimo bars left to chill outside. 

Bob wanders in just as Bittle stops recording, lured in by the scent of baking. Jack's already lifted himself a small slice of pie, trying to eat it slowly and savour it but aware that his father is likely to devour the whole thing in a matter of moments if left to his own devices. He can justify eating another slice, it's Thanksgiving after all, not for him, he’s already had his, but for Bittle. 

“Oh! The snow stopped.” Bittle says suddenly, looking up from studying the french butter packaging. Sure enough, the clouds are breaking enough now to let in rays of sun, and he can already hear the heavy engines of plows working down the streets. By tomorrow, the roads will be clear and he can show Bittle the city, there's so many places he wants to go, and not all of them are rinks, despite what Bittle thinks.

“Look at that.” Bob says, helping himself to a respectably sized slice of pie. 

They all eat, even Alicia sneaks a few slices despite her strict ‘no junk food before events’ diet. She talks about the charity gala her and Bob are going to tonight, and Jack swears he can see the stars in Bittle’s eyes as she talks about her stylists and the dresses she’s been trying on. Even though it doesn't come up in the conversation, Jack casually mentions that his mother's makeup artist has worked with Beyonce. Bittle’s reaction is everything he hoped it would be.

 

With the snow stopped and the clouds parted to reveal a stunning blue sky, Jack drags Bitty outside to enjoy it properly. The sun reflects off the pristine snow, glimmering like diamonds, bright enough that they both have to shield their eyes when they walk out into the crisp air. Frost clings to the trees, coating them in a pearlescent layer beautiful as any Christmas tree. Bittle’s lived north long enough that the novelty of snow has surely worn off by now, but they’ve never had so much of it at Samwell. It’s up to Bittle’s shins, light and fluffy, but that’s just what fell over the past few hours; the snowbanks are up to his shoulders in places. The snow’s good for making angels, but not much else, too fresh for snowballs and snowmen. But Jack brought Bittle down for a reason, and he pulls two spoons out of his jacket pocket. 

“Hold these,” he says, watching Bittle struggle to grasp them in his giant glove. 

“If you think you can convince me that Canadians eat snow with spoons, I’ll have you know Ransom already tried that one on me.” Bitty tells him.

“Haha. No. Come here.” Jack finds the cleanest patch of snow and kneels down, snow soaking into his jeans. He grabs a small flask of maple syrup, unscrews the cap and pours out a line. Bittle hands him the spoon, and before the syrup can freeze, Jack rolls it onto the utensil, coming up with a sort of syrup-cicle. He gives it to Bittle, then makes one for himself. 

“Frozen maple syrup. I can’t believe y’all.” Any subsequent chirping is forgotten when he tries it. 

“I haven’t had this in years.” Jack says, hopping back up. “Wanna go for a walk?”

They don't go far, just a trip around the block, because Jack can see how hard Bittle is trying to not complain about the cold. He looks cute in Jack’s toque and scarf, each of them covering as much of his face as possible, neither shielding his red nose. He doesn't even try to contain himself, stops suddenly in his tracks and catches Bitty’s wrist.

“What?” He asks, voice muffled. Jack tugs Bitty’s scarf down, freeing his lips, and kisses him in the empty street. Being home is making him careless, first in the gym, now here, like this part of the world is for them only: theirs are the only footprints on the block, cars are covered in inches of untouched snow, parked in front of lavish houses with their curtains drawn. Bittle smiles at him, cheeks flushed from the cold, but steps back. They aren't alone out here, and inside those houses people are reading about Jack’s career in the newspaper. He gives Bittle’s hand a quick squeeze, more glove than anything, and realizes all at once that he can’t keep pretending he doesn't want to do this. Holding hands, quick kisses, adjusting his scarf so the ends are even, those small gestures that speak the words that never came out right. Part of him has always known that every day he doesn't step out of the closet is one day closer to the door being thrown open by someone else, and it’s fucked up, but that's how it is.

It seems like he’s been thinking for minutes, but when he looks down Bittle is still smiling at him, fingers struggling against the thick down lining to squeeze Jack’s hand in return. They don't let go as they walk the rest of the way back to the condo.

Now that he’s thought it, it’s hard to keep his mind off the idea of coming out. He remembers his botched attempt at telling Shitty, which ended up being an incomprehensible mix of English and French before stammering out that he isn't totally straight. The idea of doing that again, this time in a crowded room full of reporters and cameras should be enough to change his mind, but it doesn't. This time, he doesn't have to do it alone: Georgia and the PR team will write a statement, his agent will fight to keep him in the NHL, his friends will sit in the front row so he doesn't have to look at anyone else.

But it’s not just his decision. Because if Jack comes out, Bittle is outed too. There's no way to keep him out of this, and he remembers how hard it was for Bittle to tell his Dad, so worried that Jack took the whole day off so he wouldn't miss Bittle’s call after. Everyone is Georgia, all the bigots he went to school with, all the judgemental extended family members, they're going to know too.

When his parents’ styling team comes in, Bitty looks as anxious as Jack feels, pacing around the kitchen and living room, craning his neck to peek into their room. Jack is laying on the couch, flipping through a magazine without reading it, smiling as Bittle fidgets. 

“Can't believe you didn't tell me, Jack. Do you think I should offer her some pie? Or is that too much?” 

Eventually Jack takes pity on him and introduces him to Sophie, who had only done Beyonce’s makeup like twice and has always been very sweet to Jack. While they chat, Jack slides over to where his father is standing, adjusting the knot of his tie in the mirror.

He doesn't know how to lead into this conversation, but he knows he has to have it. Jack sits on the edge of the oversized bed and taps his foot on the floor.

“T’as-tu soif?” He asks, and it’s obvious that something is up because Jack didn't come in here to offer his father a drink. Bob looks at him carefully in the mirror, then over at Bittle, engrossed in conversation with Alicia and the makeup artist. 

“Je viens de penser…” Jack starts, unsure where to start, but once he talks he spills it all. The way the secrecy eats at him, the paranoia of getting caught, the fear that Bittle is going to tire of being Jack’s dirty little secret and leave him for someone else who can give him the attention he deserves. “Chu crissement fatiguer.”

He catches Bittle looking at him from across the room, probably heard his name a few times even if he couldn't understand what they were saying. He smiles wide and earnest, in the way that warms Jack stomach and makes him feel ten feet tall. 

Bob doesn't ask if Jack is sure, or if he’s thought this through, and Jack is glad. He sighs, puts down the tie clip in his hands and turns to face his son.

“All I ever wanted is for you to be happy.” He says plainly, and the lines around his eyes deepening as his eyes droop. “I didn't always go about that the right way.” They've had this conversation before, back in the hospital room. It’s hard to hear it again. “I’ve made too many decisions for you, and I learned what the consequences are. But if you do this, it’s going to be hard, and no one can protect you from what people are going to think, what they're going to say. And they’ll say it to your face, they’ll say it to Eric. It won't die down for a long, long time. It could end your career.”

“I can handle it.” Jack says, sounding more sure than he feels.

“Then you have our support. Whatever you need.” He smiles, clasps Jack’s shoulder. “He's good for you.”

“Yeah.” Jack says. “He is.”

 

His parents leave the house in a flurry of fabric and pomp, Alicia's heels clicking loudly all the way down the hall. There's a limo parked out front, waiting to whisk them to an evening of glamour and fashion that Jack can't ever imagine himself attending. As soon as he hears the ding of the elevator doors closing, he’s crossing into the kitchen ducking down to kiss Bittle the way he’s wanted to for weeks. Bittle moans into it, pushing up onto his tiptoes, steadying himself with his hands on Jack’s chest. All that built up tension from the morning is pouring out of him now, he wastes no time in getting Bittle’s shirt off, then his own, so they're pressed together, skin on skin. He shivers and it’s not from the cold. 

Easily, he picks Bittle up, lets him wrap his legs around his waist before carrying him off to the bedroom, navigating the furniture as best he can while still kissing. It's not as easy as he thought and he’s probably going to bruise where he hit that end table. They both laugh, and when they make it in one piece Jack throws him onto the bed, literally throws, and Bittle squeals as he bounces into the pile of pillows.

He never knew sex could be like this until his first time with Bittle, so natural. Chuckling, he crawls up the mattress, hovers over him on his hands and knees, just looking at the flush that's crept through his face. They're both hard, Jack grinds down to prove it. The plan was to draw it out, but now he wants to show Bittle all the ways Jack can make him feel good, wants to count how times Bitty can come in one night. 

Pants and underwear off, they're both naked on the sheets, Jack is pressing kisses down Bittle’s stomach, leaving marks knowing the Samwell team will see them. It’s selfish but he likes it, and Bittle isn't complaining, so he keeps going. 

Afterwards, when they're flushed and sweating and completely spent, Bittle curls into Jack, grinning like a madman, but Jack thinks he is too. He feels like he just played a game, his heart is beating so loud and he doesn't trust his legs to carry him to the washroom to grab a cloth. 

“I didn't even know I could feel this good.” Bittle says, mumbling softly into Jack’s shoulder. 

“Yeah?” Jack swells with pride a little, laces his fingers with Bitty’s. 

“Mmhmm.” His eyes are drooping, and it's not late but they've had a long day. 

“Bittle…” Jack says quietly, waiting until Bitty looks up at him to continue. “I think… I want to come out. Officially.”

There's a strange moment of absolute silence, and Bittle has that look on his face he gets when Jack accidentally starts speaking to him in French. 

“Oh.”

“Only if it's alright with you.”

“Oh wow.”

It's not an answer, but in a sense it tells Jack all he needs to know. He's a little disappointed, but he doesn't want to be. 

Bittle sits up slowly, bringing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, closed off. Jack pushes himself up so he’s in front of him, not touching, but close enough to see his face in the faint moonlight. 

“I thought you wanted to wait a few years.”

“I did, but that was before I fell in love with you.”

He doesn't realize what he said until Bitty gasps, and he worries he’s being overbearing, too intense the way he’s been told he is by others before, and maybe Bittle doesn't want Jack to come out because he doesn't want to be with him anymore, and he’s slipping back to that time when he was eighteen and the doubt just wouldn't shut up, his own voice in his head telling him he wasn't good enough, not for his father, not for Kent, not for Bittle-

“Jack...” Bitty opens up, legs coming down, arms reaching out to draw him closer, and Jack comes willingly, desperately. “Do you really?”

Jack is so, so certain that he loves Bittle. Loves his optimism, how easy it is to make him laugh, how hard he’ll fight to protect those he cares for. He probably loved Bittle back in his senior year, when his camera seemed to only focus on his face. “Yeah, I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Bitty says, his voice full of laughter like he doesn't believe this is happening, but Jack’s been to Madison, seen the type of people he went to school with, knows that Bittle probably never did believe it. 

Bittle pulls Jack down on top of him with more strength than anyone would expect from him, so they lay chest to chest with Jack keeping some of his weight off Bittle, who is strong and tough, but still a lot smaller. 

“But seriously,” Bittle says, hands wandering down to rest on Jack’s ass. “It’s… a lot to consider, you know? I have to talk to my parents first, but I know you wouldn't just jump into this if you're not sure-”

“I am sure.” He punctuates each word with a kiss on Bittle's forehead, nose, and chin. That stirring feeling is back, low in his belly, and Bittle must be in the same boat because Jack can feel him getting harder against his thigh. 

“I really like the idea of… of…” Bittle struggles with his words when Jack starts kissing up the side of his neck, tonguing at the skin. “Of holding your hand in public.”

It's the last coherent sentence either of them say for the rest of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> TRANSLATIONS:  
> Y croit que tu niaises - He thinks you're kidding  
> Je suis fièr de toi - I'm proud of you  
> Maman, ché pas si Bittle - Mom, I don't think Bittle-  
> T’as-tu soif? - Are you thirsty  
> Je viens de penser… - I've been thinking...  
> Chu crissement fatiguer - I'm so damn tired
> 
> Yeah ok cool! Thanks for reading! If you want to find me on Tumblr im thehausghosts and i'm available 24/7 for screaming.


End file.
